


Giving up on us

by Akikofuma



Series: Rose Thorns & Melodies [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Injury, Depression, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Jask sleeps with a stranger, M/M, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Injury, Soft!Geralt (to an extent), Some comfort, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: “How much pain do you want, bardling?”He should have paused at that, he knew. Thought about his reply, about the decisions he was making. Bedding a strange man that was so clearly inclined towards violence wasn’t a good choice. It was dangerous. He was being foolish.“Make me bleed.”---Jaskier makes epically bad decisions when he's heartbroken.
Relationships: (Only mentioned Yen/Geralt), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Rose Thorns & Melodies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914817
Comments: 29
Kudos: 328





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. So, I've sort of been struggling with depression these last few days, and I just for the life of me could not get the idea of this story out of my head. Figured I would jot it down, see how it went. I'm not going to lie, this is dark folks.
> 
> PLEASE DON'T READ THIS IF ANY OF THE FOLLOWING THINGS ARE TRIGGERS FOR YOU/ MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE
> 
> \- Consensual abuse  
> \- Mention of abusive sex  
> \- Injuries sustained from too rough sex  
> \- Mention of anal laceration  
> \- Extremely self destructive behavior

You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak!

He’d never thought, back when he’d spoken those words, that it would be his heart the Witcher would be breaking.

“She’s in town, isn’t she?”

Geralt didn’t reply, averting his gaze. It was answer enough for Jaskier.

“Alright. Go on then.”

The bard turned towards the bed, forcing his voice to remain steady. Stuffed the oil he’d had in hand back into the satchel he was holding in his other hand. Hoped he’d be able to hold his anger and sorrow in until the white wolf abandoned him in the room they’d rented.

No sound of footsteps, or the creaking of a door.

Geralt lingered.

_Please don’t fucking torture me. Don’t make me turn around and pretend all is well._

Still, Geralt stayed. His desperate pleas ignored.

“Well?” Jaskier turned, quirked a brow at the Witcher. “I know you want to go to her. Shoo, Witcher. There’s a hot bath waiting that has my name on it.”

The statement didn’t make much sense. Sue him. It was fucking _hard_ to pretend when your heart was breaking.

Yellow eyes stared back at him. He’d like to imagine he saw guilt in them; maybe even regret.

_Just leave. We both know you will. Just go._

Abruptly, Geralt turned; was out the door not a second later. The thuds of heavy, hurried footsteps fading as more and more distance appeared between them.

He waited until he was sure Geralt was gone.

The satchel went flying through the air, hitting the wall with enough force to shatter the glass vials within. The scream lodged in his throat only swallowed down by the knowledge that should it go free, the Witcher would return; would hear the animalistic howl of agony.

It should have hurt; falling to the hard wooden floor, his knees taking the entire impact.

He didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything but the beat of his shattered heart, bleeding out with every thump thump thump.

Steam still rose from the bath he’d prepared for Geralt. He couldn’t stand to look at it; taking a bath completely out of the question.

What a waste.

He’d spent weeks planning this. Saving his coin whenever he could. Making sure he could purchase the chamomile oil Geralt liked so much, but would never admit to; a good meal for the night, and a hot bath in a room with a decent bed.

“Should’ve known better.” He mumbled into the silence, forcing himself up onto his feet with shaking arms and legs.

_Should’ve known better than to fall for him. To fall into his bed._

He’d never be what Geralt wanted. Would always be left behind in favor of her.

Never good enough, no matter how hard he tried.

Geralts heart would never be his.

He wanted badly to vomit; but the food had been expensive. He’d already wasted coin on the bath and oil. He’d be damned if he emptied his stomach and added its contents to the list of wasted things.

He sat on the bed, ignoring the jab of pain at the feeling of soft, clean linens beneath his hands. He’d paid the innkeeper extra for them. Fully intending to treat his- no, not his, _never his_ \- the Witcher to a night of well earned pleasure and relaxation.

Bathe him gently, like Geralt enjoyed most, yet complained about endlessly. Lay him out on the bed, lavish every inch of skin with love, affection, and sweet touch. Ride the man slow and deep; no frantic rutting, harsh touches that left bruises blossoming on the bards skin.

He didn’t mind their rough fucking. Not by a long shot.

But Geralt yearned for all the delicate things he though out of his reach; things Jaskier would so happily provide every minute of every day- if only it was his hands the Witcher yearned for.

His plans for the night now thoroughly upended, Jaskier considered his options.

He could stay in the room; wait until the bath had cooled, let himself be numbed by the cold liquid surrounding him.

He could lay down on the bed and weep, like he did so many night these days. Whenever Geralt left him for her; whenever he was out killing some beast and left Jaskier behind, only reminding him of the fact that soon, when their paths crossed hers again, he’d be abandoned again.

He’d already performed for the night; to go downstairs and start singing maudlin songs wouldn’t earn him any more coin, and definitely no good will from the townspeople. It was summer, and life was good for them. They wanted jigs and cheery tunes to join in with as they drank.

Drain the poison from your body. Open the wounds and let them bleed.

Jaskier stood, willing his heart to slow. Forcing himself to take slow, even breathes; until it no longer felt like he’d fall apart the very next second. Wouldn’t stumble on his way down to the bar.

He fully intended to spend the last of his coin on as much alcohol as he could afford. Drown himself in his sorrows; who knew. Maybe he’d be able to forget about the nights events and have a good nights sleep.

Forget that Geralt was most likely already wrapped up in another, covered in the scent of lilac and gooseberries. Had already forgotten about Jaskier all together in their embrace.

“You look awfully somber, dear bard.” A voice purred to his right; he’d lost count of how many tankards of ale he’d already consumed. It didn’t matter. Beside him stood a man, broad in the shoulders, muscled; likely twice Jaskiers age. Their bodies almost touching.

“You know what they say about artists of any kind, friend.” Jaskier replied, doing his hardest to avoid slurring his words. “The key to any art is _pain_.”

“They also say a good remedy for pain is a _different_ kind of pain.” The stranger said; trailed his eyes over the bards bodily with obvious desire. Oh.

He hadn’t been with anyone but Geralt ever since they’d begun sharing a bed. Knew Geralt could smell it on him; enhanced senses picking up the scent of another. He’d wanted to seem available – always, forever, always his – in case Geralt was in the mood.

Pathetic, really. Waiting around for the Witcher to climb atop him and ravish him; spending way more nights prepared that actually tangled in Geralts embrace.

Really, what was the point?

“You’d offer me this different pain, then?”

The man grinned, and nodded his head.

He didn’t bother asking his name. It didn’t matter. He’d have forgotten it again long before he left Jaskiers bed.

“Show me.”

* * *

He lead the man up into their room. Geralt never came back from her before sunrise; sometimes even the following night. They had time.

He’d barely locked the door behind him before he was crushed to the wood. The stranger hadn’t lied. It fucking hurt.

It was heaven.

Finally, he could concentrate on something other than Geralt and his witch.

“More.” He demanded, grabbing the mans shoulders and pulling him closer. “Hurt me.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

He was thrown to the floor with such force, the air was forced from his lungs. His laugh was warbled, weak as he gasped for oxygen.

_Finally_.

“How much pain do you want, bardling?”

He should have paused at that, he knew. Thought about his reply, about the decisions he was making. Bedding a  strange man that was so clearly inclined towards violence wasn’t a good choice. It was dangerous. He was being foolish.

“Make me bleed.”

* * *

He woke, bruised and battered, the next morning. His head pounding from the alcohol.

The space between his legs raw and sore and open.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to see the damage the man had caused. That Jaskier had allowed him to cause.

Even without opening his eyes, he knew his skin was covered in bruises, small cuts. Bodily fluids. Swallowing hurt. How hard had he been chocked? He couldn’t remember.

He spared a thought to the bath; it was still filled to the brim with now icy water. It would surely sooth his aches; if only from turning him too numb to really feel them.

But oh, he was so, so tired.

Every inch of his body hurt.

The burning between his legs growing steadily into agony the more aware he became.

Should really reach down and check if he was still bleeding. If he’d let himself be torn open.

His arms didn’t move.

How much blood had he lost? Was he- was this- dying?

Its not as bad as they make it out to be.

As much as his wounds hurt, the fog around his mind made them bearable. Blood loss, maybe? Perhaps just too much drink.

It was hard to tell.

He closed his eyes; gave in to sleep. Allowed destiny to run its course.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE DON'T READ THIS IF ANY OF THE FOLLOWING THINGS ARE TRIGGERS FOR YOU/ MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE
> 
> \- Consensual abuse  
> \- Mention of abusive sex  
> \- Injuries sustained from too rough sex  
> \- Mention of anal laceration  
> \- Extremely self destructive behavior

Geralt returned to the inn thoroughly conflicted. 

Guilty, for leaving the bard behind when he knew how much effort he’d put into their evening. Angry at himself, for allowing himself to be pulled in by the siren song that was the purple eyed sorceress; always wanting more from her than she was willing to give; leaving him aching and  _needy_ .

Yen would never be what he wanted. He  _knew_ this. 

So why did he keep running to her, when she always left him behind feeling worse than when they’d met before?

It was midday by the time he’d woken to an empty bed; her scent still lingering in the air. 

The inn stood empty and silent before him. Geralt took one last, deep breathe before entering. He’d make it up to Jaskier, somehow. 

Maybe he’d let him ride Roach for the day. A rare privilege Geralt denied him more often than not.  Make sure they had a good breakfast before they continued their journey. There was no contract in this town, and Yen was long gone. 

No reason to hang around.

He kept his steps silent as he walked up the wooden stairs; Jaskier had somehow become attuned to the Witchers steps, could pick out his steps easily these days. Geralt refused to think about  _that_ too much. 

If the bard was asleep after a long night of frivolity, he didn’t want to wake him. 

Cursed silently as the door creaked no matter how gently it was being pushed open. 

He was met with a sight that made the blood freeze in his veins. 

Jaskier lay naked on the bed; bruises littering the pale skin from neck to ankles, black and blue. Blood smeared across in various places, mixed with seed and sweat. 

The bards breathing was shallow; sweat beading on his forehead. 

If the clear marks of choking and a blade taken to him hadn’t been enough to make Geralt gag, the stain of blood on white linen would have. The location of it, right beneath and beside the bards rump- Geralt swallowed to keep down the bile rising in his throat.

Whoever had done this would die today.

He forced his muscles to movement, rushed to kneel beside the battered form. Checked the bards forehead and frowned at what felt like the beginning of a fever. 

Moved lower to examine every inch of the bard. Only barely holding back a growl of fury when he saw what laid between long, lean legs. Skin red and raw and split open. Dried blood clinging to the delicate skin, around the puckered ring of muscles.

Oh, he’d kill the man responsible for this  _slow_ . Make him weep and piss himself, torture him until there was nothing whole left on him; only then would he end his life.

“Jaskier.” He growled out, hoping to gently rouse the bard. “Come on bard, open your eyes.” 

The wounds needed to be tended badly. But to touch the bard now, after what had happened, without his consent- 

“G’rlt?” 

“I’m here songbird.” Geralt quickly replied, moving to where clouded blue eyes could see him. “I’m here. Need to get you cleaned up, Jaskier.”

“’m fine.” The bard slurred, eyes fluttering shut again. “W’ters clean. Sh’ld bathe.” 

Geralt wanted to yell at him. Shake the bard until he came to his senses. 

“You aren’t fine, lark.” He said instead, fighting to keep his voice calm. “You were raped. You’re hurt. I need to tend to you.” 

“W’snt raped.” Jaskier muttered, weakly shaking his head. “As’ed for it. Wan’ed him to. Wan’ed t’hurt.”

Geralt blinked, froze for the second time that day. 

It couldn’t be the truth. This had to be trauma speaking, a mind addled by pain and drink and gods knew what else. 

Perhaps Jaskier had asked for a  _pleasurable_ pain, but had been overpowered by a much stronger man. 

It wouldn’t have gotten that far had Geralt just  _fucking stayed_ . 

“Gonna warm up the water and get you cleaned up.” He stood, cast igni at the water. There would be less of it after it was warmed, water evaporating into steam. It didn’t matter. The less chance of his bard sinking low enough to drown in his exhausted state, the better. 

Geralt did his best to be gentle as he lifted Jaskier, but every motion caused a sound of pain from man. Geralt ground his teeth, and kept going. He had to do this, or the wounds would become infected. 

Jaskier hissed and mewled as he was lowered into the hot water and Geralt saw his mistake. Of course the bard couldn’t sit on the hard, wooden floor of the tub. Hell, he wouldn’t be sitting on  _anything_ anytime soon.

So the Witcher stepped into the tub with Jaskier still in his arms, armor and all, settling the bard onto his lap as carefully as he could manage. 

Grateful for the soap and strips of fabric placed on a stool beside them; Jaskier had always liked preparing the bath for Geralt before the Witcher even returned from dinner. This preparation would now come in handy; if not in the way expected. 

Each flinch and whine of discomfort the bard gave as he was cleaned made Geralt cringe. And the worst was yet to come. He’d have to reach between the bards legs, inspect the damage that had been caused- gods above. The very idea was enough to make him  _sick_ .

_ Don’t think about it. School your emotions. Don’t think about it. _

Geralt lowered his hand, brushing the tip of a calloused finger against the abused opening. The bard wailed and twisted in a pathetic attempt to get away. 

“Hush songbird, sweet lark.” Geralt muttered, one arm wrapped around Jaskiers middle to keep him still while he pressed on. “I know it hurts, I know, I’ll be quick. Don’t move, darling, stay still.”

On and on he went, muttering sweet nonsense as he examined the bards wounds. No internal injury. A small blessing. Jaskier hadn’t been torn open, but it was clear that he was incredibly sore, his insides likely as bruised and raw as the rest of him. 

Geralt finished with his work as quickly as he could while still being thorough. 

Eager to get the bard back into bed, where he could rest while Geralt applied salves to lessen the pain, speed up the healing. 

It took hours before he was finished. 

New linens on the bed, every injury tended to- there was little he could do about the bruises; they would have to heal with time. 

Jaskier would likely be unable to travel for days to come. 

Geralt sat on the floor beside the bed, and settled in to wait until the bard woke.

Then, he’d chase the rapist down and give him what he deserved. 


End file.
